Graced

by Amanda Pillar

“Well?”

  Dante sighed. “Anton wants to have sex.”

  “So? Aren’t you married to him?”

  He scrunched his eyes shut. “Yes, but I don’t like sex.”

  “Not at all?” She whistled. “That’s…very you.”

  “That’s nicer than what other people say.”

  She winced. “Sorry.”

  “You aren’t, but that’s okay.”

  Elle frowned at him. “No, really. I am sorry. If you don’t like it, you don’t like it. Each to their own. But, can’t you just be on the bottom or something?”

  “I could, and I said I would have sex if he wanted it—which I didn’t think he’d ever want, because I took Annabel from him.”

  Dante had thought he’d be safe from that, had thought Anton would seek relief outside of their marriage, but even though he couldn’t read people very well, he knew enough now to realize Anton was honorable. And so his hopes had always been in vain, even though he hadn’t understood it until recently.

  “Anton thinks you’re hot.” The way Elle said it though, it was clear even to him that she thought that was strange.

  Although, Dante did feel…flattered? Happy? He wasn’t sure, but it was positive.

  Elle’s legs were swinging, back and forth, back and forth, rather like a pendulum. It distracted him. “So just let him do his thing,” she said.

  “But, he said I had to get back to him when I…well…when…”

  “When what?”

  Dante could feel heat rising up his cheeks. “When I got an erection. I assume for him.”

  “Well, Anton is good-looking. Can’t be that hard. No pun intended.” Her eyes widened. “You aren’t hetero are you?”

  “Well, no. But that’s because I’m asexual.”

  “What?”

  “It means—”

  “I know what the word means, moron.” She was glaring at him. “How did you ever manage to have sex before, then? You have had sex before, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you had to get hard for that, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then how?”

  Dante felt his teeth grinding against each other. This was growing beyond humiliating, and now he could feel it, it was really bad. “By nearly giving someone lock-jaw.”

  “Lock—right.” Now she was blushing. “So you can’t get hard for Anton? Have you tried? Why are you so worried, anyway? Just tell him you will put out and let him do the work.”

  This was the most embarrassing part of all. “I want to please him.”

  Dante actually liked Anton. He’d never really liked anyone before. And last night, when he’d seen Anton sprawled over his bed, firm stomach exposed, it had, well, caused a stirring in his pants. Not an erection, but perhaps the start of one.

  “Okay. So…I don’t know. Maybe try kissing him or something. See where it goes.”

  Dante guessed that was good advice. It couldn’t hurt. And people liked kissing. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad with Anton?

  “Thanks.”

  Elle gave him a half smile and stood. “Uh, no problem. But, let’s not do this again.”

  Dante returned the expression. “Agreed.”

  Chapter 55

  “Eleanor is not dead.”

  Melissande glanced up from her cup of tea, surprised to see her mother standing in the doorway to her kitchen. “How did you get in?”

  “Didn’t you hear what I said? Eleanor is not dead.”

  Blinking, Melissande felt her stomach do a funny flip-flop. “Have you seen her, or have you just decided this?”

  Melissande had always worried—hoped—that because Olive could read minds so easily, she would eventually go senile. Maybe today was the day? Although a senile Green was a dangerous one, and her mother was hazardous enough as she was.

  Olive folded her arms across her bony chest. “I haven’t seen her, but Bjorn has.”

  At the mention of his name, Bjorn filled the space in the doorway behind Olive. Well, Melissande thought, that explains how Mother got inside. Locks weren’t really a bother for Grays.

  Bjorn inclined his head. “I saw her, near Lord Row.”

  Lord Row?

  “Why would Elle have been there? Are you sure it was her? After all, she was cremated.”

  “She must have escaped,” Olive muttered, looking over at the sink and then back at Melissande.

  “Escaped?” Melissande laughed. “I tended to my daughter, washed her cold body before she was sent to the crematorium. She was dead. You think she just up and climbed out of her coffin?”

  Green eyes snapped and snared Melissande’s. “She might not have been dead.”

  Shaking her head, trying to clear it of a sudden fuzzy feeling, Melissande looked down at her chipped mug. The one Elle had made for her all those years ago. “What are you saying?”

  “I think you already know. What did Emmie tell you? What does the child know?”

  “Nothing,” Melissande said.

  “Mel—”

  “What is Gran doing here?” The small, piping voice came from Emmie, who must have been stuck in the hallway behind Bjorn.

  She wanted to lie to Emmie, make up some half-truth, but from the expression on her mother’s face, she knew she wouldn’t be so lucky. “Gran says Elle is still alive.”

  Emmie’s voice was flat as it floated to her in the kitchen. “Elle’s dead.”

  “She might have survived, and I think you know about it.” Olive turned around and motioned for Bjorn to get out of her way. She disappeared into the hallway and Emmie shouted, “Ow! Let me go!”

  Melissande stood and rushed to the hallway, in time to see her mother’s white-knuckled grip on Emmie’s arm.

  “Let her go!” Melissande grabbed her mother’s arm and shook it. Emmie whimpered.

  “Leave me,” Olive barked, and Melissande almost let go; her fingers loosened to do so, but Emmie’s new cry of pain had her tightening her grip and jerking her mother from Emmie.

  “Don’t hurt my daughter,” Melissande growled. She quickly stood in front of Emmie.

  “Get out of the way, Melissande.”

  “You are in my home, Mother. You will not hurt my daughter.” Melissande felt anger, blessed anger, rising up through her. It cleared the cobwebs from her mind, burned through her fear and doubt, washed away the need to give in.

  “So how is it that you miraculously saw Elle?” she asked Bjorn, ignoring her mother who was sputtering in the hallway between her and the hulking bodyguard.

  “I was—uh, in the area.”

  Melissande glared at him. “You need to learn to lie better. Why were you in the area?”

  She let go of her mental shield to sample the emotional currents in the hall. As normal, her mother was a mixture of indignation and annoyance. It never varied, excepting the occasional bout of smugness. Emmie was scared. Bjorn was feeling upset and angry. Betrayed, almost. Melissande frowned.

  “I was asked to have a look around, to follow a werewolf.”

  She felt Emmie’s fear spike, which was strange. Her daughter normally didn’t fear wolves or vampires, even though she should.

  “And?”

  “Elle was with him.”

  “Elle was with a werewolf?” Melissande felt a bubble of laughter erupt. “Elle? Who hated vampires and weres almost more than anyone I know?”

  “Well, Elle probably doesn’t hate ’em as much anymore since she is now a leech.”

  Her laughter died as suddenly as it was born. “Not possible.” Melissande deliberately kept her mind blank, refusing to remember a certain conversation. She looked at her mother.

  Olive shrugged. “It happens from time to time.”

  “Graceds becoming vampires? Isn’t the first rule of being Graced don’t get Bitten and don’t get Chosen?”

  Olive frowned. “She wasn’t a full-blood. She had enough Brown to survive.”

  “By the blood, you’re serious, aren’t you?” She looked from
Bjorn to Olive and back again. “You really think Elle is still alive? And you’re telling me now? How did she survive the cremation? Why didn’t you do something then?”

  “We think the werewolf let her out before the cremation,” Bjorn said, pronouncing “werewolf” like it was a curse.

  Like Elle surviving was a bad thing.

  If it was true, she wanted to kiss whoever it was who’d helped Elle escape. Thinking back, she remembered that there’d been a wolf at the funeral. A tall, hulking fellow who looked like he’d spent most of his life on a farm. “That’s, well, that’s—” Melissande said.

  “Disgusting, I know. It’s why I wanted to see the body before it was cremated. But the wolf convinced me it wasn’t necessary.” Olive was annoyed, more so than normal.

  “Wait—what?” Melissande blinked twice. “You’re saying you thought she might survive and you wanted to cremate her anyway?”

  “She shouldn’t have gotten away,” Olive said.

  “You’re horrible!” Emmie yelled. “You want Elle dead. You want to kill her!”

  Melissande froze. “You want to kill Elle?”

  Olive’s jaw set. “She’s an abomination. She has to die.”

  Chapter 56

  “Explain to me again why I can’t go and knock on my mother’s door and say hello?” Elle plucked a blossom off a nearby honeysuckle vine and twirled it between her fingers. The light, sweet scent tickled her nose, but she didn’t mind. It smelled better than the dimly lit streets outside the townhouse.

  Clay sighed. He was sitting next to her on a stone bench in the Greystokes’ garden. It was a nice space, Elle decided, and she hadn’t really appreciated it before, since the previous two occasions she’d spent any length of time in the quiet green space had been during fights. It had a really relaxing quality to it, and she felt her shoulders droop, in a good way. The invisible stake that she’d felt aimed between her shoulder blades even seemed to vanish.

  “If your grandmother learns of your, uh, unlife, she’ll try to kill you,” Clay said.

  “I get that. But, I kinda already announced my presence in the receiving room at the Crystal Palace. Gossip gets around. Especially to Gran.”

  Always to Gran. When you could hear what everyone around you thought, there wasn’t much gossip you didn’t know. Elle knew that firsthand, now. Add to that Gran’s propensity for placing Graceds in high-ranking positions in the palace, and well, it was only a matter of time before she worked out that Elle had escaped her coffin.

  Lifting the flower up, Elle breathed in the scent again. Darla, sweet kid that she was, had announced they were going to plant some night-blooming flowers in the garden. Because even though Elle and Dante could hang out in the courtyard during the daytime, it wasn’t comfortable for them unless it was cloudy. Like today.

  Stupid sensitive skin, she thought.

  It wasn’t all that bad, she supposed, but bright light hurt her eyes, and her skin felt sunburned, even if it didn’t look it.

  Clay spoke, interrupting her thoughts. “It’s why the baron is petitioning the king today for your sister’s custody. If he fails, he’ll bring his father to town to try. An earl should have more sway.”

  “How is he going to convince them to give her to me?” Elle asked.

  “By proving that your mother isn’t competent as a guardian.”

  Elle flinched. Her mother was able, just vague. She’d never really taken a strong interest in her children’s upbringing, leaving most of it to Gran, until Gran had kicked her out in a fit of fury when Elle was little. Rather than beg to come back—which Elle thought had been Gran’s intention—Melissande had decided to get a place of her own. She liked to think it was because her mother finally realized the ill treatment Elle had been receiving at her gran’s hands. But she didn’t know for sure. Then it had been up to Elle to look after Emmie.

  “But wouldn’t Emmie go to Gran if that was the case?”

  Clay plucked the flower from her hands. “Normally, yes. But you’re of age, you’re engaged, you’re the stepdaughter to a baron and you’re step-granddaughter of an earl. Rules of society say that you’re able to better provide for her.”

  “But Gran is rich.”

  Clay frowned. “I know. But I’m sure if we were to dig, we’d find something about her that we could use in our favor.”

  It all seemed too wishy-washy to Elle. “There’re so many maybes in this plan. We should have just taken Emmie and run.”

  Clay groaned and ran a hand over his hair. “Want some blood?”

  Fine, she thought, change the topic. They’d only discuss it again later when it all fell apart and they’d have to try something new. If she didn’t get results soon though, she’d just go with her gut, grab her sister and vanish. Screw Clay and fuck his politics.

  “Yes, please.”

  Clay nodded and stood. She watched his back as he meandered down the stone path of the garden toward the terrace. Her annoyance at him disappeared and her mouth went dry. Blood, she liked the way his butt looked in those pants.

  “Elle?”

  And his back. Gee, Clay did know how to fill a shirt…

  “Elle?”

  Maybe she’d rip it off him later. Make him buy a new one.

  “Elle?”

  Jolting, Elle sat upright and stared into the distance. Someone was calling her name from outside the garden?

  “Elle!”

  Standing, she quickly followed the sound, the voice sending shivers down her spine. Looking either side of her, she noticed that no one was around. Throwing the gate open, her jaw dropped at the sight on the other side.

  “Mother?”

  “Elle, darling!” Melissande opened her arms and rushed at Elle, crushing her in a hug. “Sweetheart, they said you weren’t dead…”

  “How did you know I was here?” Elle asked, gut sinking. She pushed her mother back and held her by the shoulders, staring into those clear Blue eyes. Tears sparkled there. She tried to get a grab onto her mother’s thoughts, but they were jumbled, swirling, moving faster than Elle’s inexperience could handle.

  Melissande turned and started tugging on Elle’s arm. It didn’t move her. “You need to come with me. Emmie will be so pleased to see you. She’s been missing you like crazy.”

  Instant concern. “Is she okay?” Elle asked.

  Her mother turned back to her, eyes darkening. “No.”

  “What? What’s wrong?” Elle took a step forward, through the gate and into the alley behind Greystoke House. She tried to reach her mother’s thoughts again, but had no luck. She hadn’t realized her mother was so good at evading Greens. Elle had always thought Gran had easy access.

  Unless, Elle thought, Mother is so upset I just can’t get a grip on her mind. Which she guessed was possible.

  Melissande’s eyes darkened even more. “You need to come with me. She’ll be so happy to see you.”

  “But, Mother, is Emmie okay?” Fear and worry pounded through her. Her mother was acting weird, weirder than normal. Had something happened to Emmie? Had all this time Elle had been wasting, living it up in a baron’s household, been detrimental to her sister?

  Melissande shook her head, tugging on Elle’s arm. “No, but she will be.”

  Frowning, Elle followed her, down the alley. A sharp, stinging feeling exploded on her neck and she slapped at it, as if it was a mosquito. She rubbed at the pain and her hand came away, splotched in blood. What kind of a mosquito bit vampires and then exploded in a bubble of blood?

  Feeling a little dizzy—what kind of a fucking mosquito was that?—she shook her head. Elle followed her mother, her non-bloody hand tightening around Melissande’s. A shadow stepped into her path and she tried to dodge it, but she was knocked to the ground. Her vision blurred.

  Something large landed on top of her, and she was too giddy to do anything about it. Elle batted at it with her hands, feebly, and heard a grunt in complaint. Then something gripped her head like a vice and twisted. S
ickening, roaring pain ripped through her neck, accompanied by a loud crunching noise.

  Then everything went black.

  Chapter 57

  Dante’s neck hurt. Really hurt.

  I mean, he thought, it really fucking hurts. Rubbing the joint in question, he couldn’t stop the frown that spread across his face. It was like someone had punched him right in the back of his skull. Shaking his head, wincing as he did so, he held his book up higher, trying to prevent moving any more than he had to. He should have been reading his notes, but had figured that there wasn’t really much point now. He was surreptitiously keeping a record of everything Elle had told him and what he’d been able to monitor, but he was being careful. He assumed his father’s threat still stood.

  So rather than pursue his studies, or be social in the drawing room, Dante was hiding in his study reading a romance novel. If only Misty could see him now, he thought, she would laugh her head off. But he had to try and understand how love worked. And he was too embarrassed to speak to Elle or Anton.

  The door to his study burst open and Dante hastily shoved the book under the table. Clay stood in the doorway, panting, as if he’d been running. Sighing to himself, Dante realized that was just a sign of how distracted he was. He should have heard Clay’s approach, and he may have, had he been paying any attention to anything other than the pain in his neck or his soon-to-be new obsession: romance novels.

  “Have you seen Elle?” Clay almost growled at him.

  Standing, sliding the book onto his empty chair, Dante went to shake his head and almost lost his balance from pain. “No.”

  Clay went to leave the room, but stopped. He turned and focused on Dante with those bright yellow eyes.

  “What?” Dante asked.

  “What’s wrong with your neck, leech?”

  “I don’t know, but it hurts like, well, shit.” Dante rubbed it. He began walking to the door. Maybe Beatrice would have something he could take for the pain? Although, vampires didn’t normally need anything to relieve pain, since they healed so fast it didn’t really matter.

  Clay was looking at him strangely. “When did your neck start hurting?”